The Pied Piper
by Ramowen
Summary: Lost in a world not his own, a fragile madman must work his way back to sanity and escape his confinment in order to save the children he himself endangered. Will his psychiatrist help him, or will she be vengefull and let him rot
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: not mine, copyright Labyrinth Enterprises (at least, that's what it says on my copy of the movie. Thank you Mr. Jim Henson way up high for creating such loveliness.   
  
  
Short chapters this time, and more of them.  
  
If you like Jareth, this tale will upset you.  
  
  
  
  
  
The Pied Piper   
  
  
Prologue  
  
  
  
High, high, higher. To glide on the wind in this strange, strange world. To watch how the toy cars found their way over the asphalt, headlights bright, taillights cosy.  
  
He would never understand this world. And always know why people would try to leave it.  
  
Down, down, down he went. Shifting form unseen in the dark, walking from the ally into the busy street. It was not a nice street, to be busy so late at night. Women, young and old, scantly clad and eyes heavy with make up, their lips forming sweet words. Staring at him as if he were a prise to be won. He was arrogant enough to believe he might be.   
  
Because he was not handsome, he was beautiful. Looking for all the world like a thirty something with a short unruly mob of almost white curly hair, ice blue eyes with uneven pupils making for a mesmerising stare, high cheekbones and a the pale tight skin of a young girl. Black shirt and black leather jacket, his slender hips tightly hugged by his jeans. The high heeled boots made him taller than he actually was and both those boots and the elegant sway he walked with made him a natural object of desire. He knew it, toyed with it- ran away from anything serious. Illusive.  
  
Widows of midnight shops, the rag tag theatres only showing porn, the little corner where the fraud laid out her deck of cards to spell out your future. It would be at least an hour more before the girl would grow tired of her crying baby sister. So, with time to spare and a slight grin on his face, he went there to amuse himself.  
  
When he left that place, he was too shocked to do anything but to go home, and forgot all about that baby.  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Past/Present

Disclaimer: not mine, copyright Labyrinth Enterprises (at least, that's what it says on my copy of the movie. Thank you Mr. Jim Henson way up high for creating such loveliness.   
  
  
Short chapters this time, and more of them.  
  
If you like Jareth, this tale will upset you.  
  
  
The Pied Piper  
One  
  
The memories were old, years old. An eternity down here.  
  
"One, the centre," she had said. "That what you are or causes your problems."  
  
He turned on his small bed, shrugged against his rough mattress, pulled the thick blanket over his head and tried not to dream. Or to think. Or to feel. Or to hear the gasping, gurgling sounds in the darkest corner of the cell.  
  
There was this memory of bright red hair, doe-like brown eyes and a nervous smile. She was young and not very experienced. Wore the wrong make up, had all the stupid things outsiders found gypsy like. Big earrings, purple cloth over her hair and shoulders, fake gold on her fingers. A cheap glass bulb for a crystal ball- the rest was vague, swirling colours, dancing images. But for the cards. And the explanation that was so wrong.  
  
"It is the Magician. The master and creator of his own fate. You are one that knows what he is doing. You make ideas real."  
  
He remembered he must have smiled- how if she truly had been clear-voyant she would have taken the card as literal as possible and thrown him out.   
  
"The second card is what crosses you or supports you."  
  
The black card of the tower appeared, with two falling figures and a crown falling from a burning tower struck by lightning.  
  
"Your life will change radically, but you do not wish it"  
  
Falling. Fallen from grace. Struck by lightning. Falling. The man on the cot remembered flying. And falling. He should have listened. He should have. But he had not and now he had fallen.  
  
"This is your resent past. Your heart was damaged."  
  
Grey clouds pouring rain. A floating red heart, pierced by three swords. The coughing in the corner became a little louder and rough "Please-" the hoarse voice begged desperately. The man on the bed pressed his hands flat against his ears not to hear.  
  
"This is your future-" He still remembered how the young woman had hesitated. Why for pity's sake would he remember a thing like that!  
  
"This will only be your future if you do nothing about it, if you make different choices, this will not be."  
  
"It cannot be all that serious, surely?"   
  
He remembered his own voice, had he truly mocked so cruelly? Another muffled sound from the ground. He did not turn towards it. He cared not for it. All he wanted were a few blessed hours of oblivion, of sleep.  
  
Ten of swords, a dead person, impaled through the back, lower back and ear to the beach, wearing a cape of blood, Dead. Face to the ground. Unable to see the rising sun lifting the shroud of the darkest, blackest night of the soul.  
  
"If you keep thinking the way you are thinking now, going in circles, you will end up very depressed."  
  
The man on the bed mumbled to his past- trying to reach out to the fortune teller over a gorge of more than fifteen years.  
  
"I never hold on to the past. I'm immortal- I'll go mad if I did."  
  
The door to the cell, heavy metal, padded with soft materials, stood slightly ajar. The gurgling sounds moved towards the gap.  
  
"This is what you are, your deepest emotion. You really are a happy-go-easy guy, aren't you?"  
  
"That card has more than one double meaning."  
  
"He! I'm the fortune teller here, alright! I know what it means and it means deep down, all you wish for is to be happy."  
  
The bright card of the fool, the zero. The all encompassing. The little voice that made you act rash or childlike. Both innocent and experienced, knowledgeable without knowing. Not of the normal world, but ready to enter it's adventures. The one that impulsively acts without thinking. The eternal beginning.  
  
The man on the bunk remembered how he had just smiled. But where was his smile now? Who had stolen it?  
  
"This is what is on your mind. The lovers. You are constantly pining after a love you lost. If you don't stop thinking like this, you will hurt yourself."  
  
He remembered snorting at that.  
  
"This is where you are now. The moon. You live in a fantasy world."  
  
In spite of himself the man on the bed chuckled. He didn't even know what was real anymore. He wanted to leave this place, wanted to go out in the world, wanted to find the sunlight again, even on the card it had been obscured by the moon.  
  
"This is the outside world. The people around you. This card is the five of swords- it means that you will be fighting a fight you cannot win. So try avoid fights. Since it has something to do with the law- but it could also be-" the young woman shrugged-  
  
"Well?"  
  
"Different voices in your own mind."  
  
Within the safe dark, he turned towards the door and saw one foot sticking out. The other had crawled through it. Laying in the brightly lit hall, his colleagues would come for him soon enough. The prisoner cared not. He cared only for the cold of the past. The cold he felt with the turning of the next card.  
  
"This is what you hope and fear. Oh my!"  
  
The devil. Lord of Illusions. Of that which was not real. Lord of Lies. Of passion. Of feasts and physical pleasure. The card telling the timid to be less shy, the hedonist do back down. A king to look inside of his heart and not fear the outcome. A man to not fear the illusion.  
  
"Let's look at the last card first, shall we?"  
  
The man on the cot started to laugh out loud- it was not a happy sound, slightly maniacal. Nine of swords, the card on the position of conclusion. Here he was, an insomniac in a padded cell, remembering a tarot card drawn years ago, showing him a person desperate for sleep and unable to move. Those cards had predicted madness! But he wasn't mad, surely.  
  
"If only I could remember..."  
  
A vision in his cell. The fake gypsy with the three other cards she had asked him to pull from the deck. The star, in the hour of deepest dark, a guiding light would save him. It was the card of hope. The two of cups, a young couple exchanging cups, looking each other in the eye lovingly. The blessed love of the conscious adult. The blessed love of the parent for the child, the friend for a friend, the one for the other. Blessed true love. The queen of cups, The queen of the free spirit and creativity. The queen of feelings and emotion and instinct.   
  
"You will be saved by the woman you love."  
  
In his cell he laughed as he had laughed then.  
  
"There is no woman that loves me- or one I feel for." He had chuckled.  
  
With a frown on her youthful face the gypsy had angrily answered him.  
  
"Yes there is- and her name is..." She hesitated, snapped with her fingers in the air as if taking the knowledge from it.  
  
"Her name is Sarah!"  
  
That was when he had bolted.  
  
The man on the bed flinched and sat up. The light from the hallway scarred half his face. Thin and wild, filthy and sticky with sweat, spiky hair matted, dull eyes staring at the trail of blood his so called guard had left.  
  
If the others were quick, he might not die.  
  
There were sounds in the hallway. Rubber footfalls of soft shoes, harsh voices shouting about broken limbs, faces and ambulances.  
  
He pulled his arms around his legs and rocked himself like a frightened child., buried his face against his knees.  
  
The door swung open. Large men dressed in white. He was yanked up at the sleeve of the uniformly formless pyjamas they had issued him, thrown on the dirty floor, hit over the back with a truncheon, twice, thrice. He curled into a ball, protecting his head, whimpering and crying.  
  
"Jesus! Look at all the blood!"  
  
"Stop hitting him! He ain't resistin'!"  
  
"The bastard! That small bastard!"  
  
"But how the hell did he do it?"  
  
They yanked him to his feet, forced him into a straightjacket and marched him, in between the three of them, to one of the isolation cells. One without furniture and completely padded. They threw him in, and he lay where he landed, unmoving, with closed eyes against the light.  
  
Back in the cell apart from the blood on the walls and in the corner were the beaten orderly had fallen, they found a tray with syringes and heavy sedatives.  
  
"What the hell was Jack doing in here- alone with that nut!  
  
"Jack must have thought him too small too be dangerous."  
  
"He! The guy murders children alright! He might be not a lot of things, but he -is- dangerous!"  
  
"Yeah, well- give him a wash and he's pretty."  
  
"Wadda ye mean!"  
  
"You know the rumours about Jack- and pretty male inmates."  
  
"Oh, come on! Jack would never..."  
  
"Believe what you will, but I'm not going to condemn this guy for covering his arse- If you know what I mean."  
  
"Have you -seen- what he did to Jacks face!"  
  
Thomas, tall, broad, too square of chin to be handsome, croocked teeth, mousy hair and gentle blue eyes, nodded.  
  
"Never guessed he was that strong, eh?"   
  
"Would it be safe, having that psych looking at him tomorrow?"  
  
"Don't know. But she's tough, you know. She'll be able to handle him."  
  
"Nobody should 'handle' that nut! He's a mad dog and he should be put down!"  
  
Why was it he could always hear the people talk in his head? Why was it nobody else could? He wished the light would go out in his new room. He really wished it was dark. Just dark, so he could sleep.  
  
"And have you seen those ears! How crazy must you get to have somebody do that to you!"  
  
Suddenly the corridor where the men stood went dark.  
  
"Oh my gawd!  
  
"Not -another- power outage!"  
  
The men scurried away to find flashlights and make repairs, although nothing was probably damaged.   
  
In the padded room the slender man with the funny ears sighed, curled up like a shrimp and closed his eyes. And finally, finally, he slept.  
  
  



	3. The Case

Disclaimer: not mine, copyright Labyrinth Enterprises (at least, that's what it says on my copy Of the movie). Thank you Mr. Jim Henson way up high for creating such loveliness.   
  
  
If you like Jareth, this tale will upset you.  
  
  
The Pied Piper  
  
Two  
  
  
"Aw Merlin!"  
  
Merlin the Second meowed indignantly while Sarah pushed the animal from her files. The Blue Tip Siamese Tom-cat jumped from the table and went over to the other three of his kind, lounging on the white couch, that shared the apartment with their two humans. Cleopatra, his mum, threw a foul look in the general direction of the she-human and started to scrub her son with her tongue the moment he slumped next to her. He too turned his head towards the she-human with baleful eyes. Sheherazade and Leila, his sisters, opened their sleepy eyes momentarily, then dozed off again.  
  
Laughter came from the kitchen as Peter entered the living room, balancing munchies two glasses of red wine and a single white rose in a vase on a tray.  
  
"Cats will be cats."  
  
"Which is why I like dogs better."  
  
"For whom we both do not have the time..."  
  
"And cats are fairly easily to keep. I know, I know." Finished Sarah the old argument with a smile. She pushed back her glasses and brushed the hairs from her papers.  
  
"I just wish they weren't shedding their fur all the time. Or at least not all over my papers!"  
  
Peter flopped down next to the cats.   
  
"Then don't leave them were they can lie on top. Now leave those for a minute, will ye? Have a brake. Smell the rose."  
  
Sarah turned and smiled at her tall husband. Tall and slender, dark brown hair and a wicked grin on his face. She went over to him and curled herself into his lap. They kissed, gently, toasted to nothing in particular and just sat there, staring happily into the flames of their fireplace for a while.  
  
The apartment was a lot smaller than they could afford, modestly yet cosily furnished. He was a history teacher at a private school for rather snobbish youngsters, she a psychiatrist with a hobby for the bizarre and difficult. Her agenda was full, filled with the abused, the sad, the lonely and the heartbroken. The searchers for self.   
  
Yet she always found time to 'give something back' as she called it, taking a few pro deo cases or helping out the police. Twice she had aided them as a profiler- not an experience she had enjoyed particularly.   
  
There were no children in this marriage. Sarah had wanted none and Peter had complied. He never had asked her why. She never asked him why.  
  
They had cats. She had named the tom.  
  
Sarah sighed.  
  
"That hard a case?" Peter asked her with a worried little frown.  
  
"Yeah." She shrugged.  
  
"You know, you should not get so absorbed in this kind of work- after all, it pays you very little."  
  
"And it keeps me away from you." she teased in sing-song.  
  
Peter positively leered at her, pulled her towards him, nuzzled her neck and shoulder with is mouth and gently laid his hand on her breast.  
  
"Well there are always better thing to do with our time- we see each other little enough as is. And the I have homework to correct or a meeting to prepare and you -always- have your cases..."  
  
"Well, this one is weird." Sarah placed down her glass, stood, pushed back her glasses, again, and paced the room.  
  
"You see, they found him, up north, in the middle of the woods, surrounded by wild animals, deer, rabbits, lots of birds, and apparently they were all listening to hear him play. On a flute. And he never said anything. He never talked. They know he can talk because he speaks in his sleep, but he never said anything. Whatever they asked of him, whatever they did to him, he stayed completely passive. No reaction, what-so-ever!"  
  
"So- He's a nut, a hermit living in some woods, with his animals. Big deal. Why is he in state prison for that."  
  
"In the cabin where they found him, they discovered he had lived on roots and nuts and berries and not much more. At first they just wanted to help him, you know. The locals had sent a social worker to him to check up on him. You know how they found out about him? A year ago, a teenaged girl was being raped by two men, her boyfriend beaten into unconsciousness. And suddenly, there he was, coming from the trees like fury kicking and screaming an beating those guys away. He saved those two teens."  
  
"Your babbling."  
  
"They said, he was dressed like a scarecrow on bare feet. With long hair and no beard. So at first they thought he was just a kid."  
  
"Strong kid."  
  
"Then their fathers looked for him to thank him. He fled. Shy. Afraid. In the end, they lured him out of his lair with milk and cookies. Can you imagine that? And when he finally trusted them enough to accept the clothes and shoes they offered him, he just sat down on the forest floor, and cried. Every time after that when they showed him only the smallest kindness, he was moved to tears. They liked him in that village."  
  
"So why has he been incarcerated?"  
  
"Over the last fourteen years, no less then twenty-three children in the age of zero to five have disappeared in that area, and everybody has been clueless as to their whereabouts. They think a madman must have been behind all of this. They think they have found their madman in this lone woodsman."  
  
"What do you think?"  
  
"What can one think. The social worker they sent to help him was of the nosy kind. She found all of those children's clothes in various large boxes he kept around in his den. But not a trace of the bodies."  
  
  



	4. Dreamers

Disclaimer: not mine, copyright Labyrinth Enterprises (at least, that's what it says on my copy Of the movie). Thank you Mr. Jim Henson way up high for creating such loveliness.   
  
If you like Jareth, this tale will upset you.  
  
  
The Pied Piper  
  
Three  
  
"You are a Fae."  
  
He smiles, both gentle and arrogant. Twirls her around in the narrow space between the other dancers. Their colours are reddish brown, moss green, soft pink and gold. They are like the earth and the woods and the morning mist. They hide their faces behind a devils grin, painted on their horned beasts masks, scull faces, cat's eyes.  
  
He is her royal blue Midnight Sky and she his pure and radiant Star. When she is close to him, the gemstones on his frock coat glitter with a life of their own and his eyes sparkle in tune. When he is close to her, she has the wisdom of belonging.  
  
"You are a girl."  
  
While his lips keep smiling, there is regret in those eyes. Indignant she replies him.  
  
"I'm nearly a woman!"  
  
He pushes for more space and some of the other dancers disappear. The room gets clearer, wider. The bubble fans out and solidifies into the castle walls of yellow grey stone. Golden servants offer resting guests their wine, little goblins scurry around, delivering messages, clearing up after the guests, mostly unseen, trying to avoid the tall dancers. Large gothic windows appear, open to the wonderful fresh air outside.   
  
"Nearly, but not just yet, my pet." he rhymes, both regretful and teasingly.  
  
Candles flicker into existence, all over the ballroom, huge mirrors reflect the soft light thousand fold and the dancers swirl through a sea of stars. Chandeliers above them, heavily hung with diamonds and pearls again reflect the light. The dancers see only each other.  
  
She has an arrogance all of her own, Holding up the side of her white satin gown, breathing a little difficult for the tight bodice sewn with pale diamonds and the rich yet heavy necklace at her throat she answers haughtily.   
  
"I'm not your pet."  
  
He pulls her against his body and she gasps. Quickly he brushes his lips over her brow, then allows the little space between them again.  
  
"Let me give you your dreams."  
  
She smiles.   
  
"But we are dreamers now."  
  
He nods.  
  
"How true."  
  
There is no time for more. Suddenly the ballroom is divided with the remaining Fae, the servants and the goblins at one side, The King and his lady at the other. One Fae takes of the grotesque mask.  
  
"Where are you!" he demands.   
  
Like all of his kind, he is beautiful and slender. In contrast to the King he is very dark haired, black, like a raven's wings. Yet his blue eyes are as uneven as the King's. His palms are open and his voice is pleading.  
  
"Come back, I need you."  
  
"Ashemelon- I stand right before you." He looks somewhat befuddled at his lady and she looks back, frightened.  
  
Other Fae take their masks of, whispering.  
  
"Come back to us."  
"Where are you."  
"We can't find you."  
"We miss you."  
"Use your magic."  
  
Taking back a step, away from them and letting go of his lady's hand, he answers.  
  
"But I am using my magic, all the time-"  
  
The first Fae to speak steps up to him and stands close to the young woman.  
  
"Not enough, brother- never enough! The chasm between their world and ours is one we can never as easily bridge. That was always one of your talents."  
  
Than he tries for humour.  
  
"Please come back- Your goblins are driving me nuts!"  
  
The girl places her hand on the arm of the stranger Prince to attract his attention.   
  
"Come back? But he stands before you. Come back where from? How can the goblins drive you nuts- He is the one that rules them."  
  
The dark Prince turns to the girl.   
  
"You always forget your dreams. And he just can't seem to remember. Find him for us!  
  
"Why! What is going on!"  
  
"Guide him back to us. Find him for us. Make him use his magic more than he has ever done before- Than we can find him. You are our only hope, child of the other world. Only you remember. Only you believe."  
  
"What has happened?"  
  
"We know so little."  
  
The King embraces her from behind, protective. His voice is deceivingly sweet and openly sarcastic.  
  
"Yes my dear, do tell."  
  
She does not protest, for once. He is real and solid and she needs to feel him.  
  
One by one, the candles splutter and die. One by one, the Fae, the golden servants and the goblins, fade and disappear. She feels him go from her and spins around.  
  
"No!" she cries, seeing light only far away and runs to it as fast as her gown allows.  
  
  
One by one, the candles splutter and die and he is unable to keep them alive. Which is odd, if you think about it. Suddenly she is gone, calling for him from great distance but he cannot react to her voice. The light around him his harsh, coming from a dirty pole. There is an awful smell, rivalling the bog with it's intensity. Males have relieved themselves here, people have vomited here- and there are odd bags with old dirt and flies- He inspects one of the bags, without touching it, holding an elegant perfumed lace handkerchief before his nose and mouth.  
  
"Plastic!" he says disdainfully, understanding instantly where in the nine worlds he has ended up- but still very much without the why.  
  
  
She runs to the light and is closing. Does he not hear her cry? Does he not see the shadows, nearing him from behind? Oh yes, thank god- he does.  
  
  
Slowly he turns towards the harsh voices speaking in obscenities. When they come for him, the first is thrown into the bags and the dirt, the second is forced on his knees by the iron grip around his wrist, making him drop the shining blade.  
  
He laughs. Arrogantly, proudly. Unworried.  
  
  
Too damn sure of himself, she thinks, closer yet still to far away. He cannot see the first one moving among the dirt in-between them. She reaches them, finally- but she is behind a wall of invisible bricks and she can't find a way to break through. She knows without reason from his end, all he sees is the wall.  
  
  
The third one takes to his heels, followed by his laughter. He seems unaware of the first.  
  
  
"No!" she screams. "He has a gun!" she shouts.  
  
  
When he finally turns to the muffled sounds, it is too late, the silent drop of metal already on its way. He reacts too quick for the human eye and jumps, yet the wound in his side is unavoidable and he falls. The shadow comes for him again- he grimaces, flicks his wrist- thousands of ants were the shadow stood and the weapon falls to the ground with a clattering sound besides a small pile of cloth. The shadow with the broken wrist screams-  
  
  
With great difficulty, a wounded red splattered owl tries to fly away- then there is a light searing and bright, high in the air out of her reach. The smell of burning feathers- darkness.  
  
  
  
They would always wake up wild and terrified grasping for hell knows what, only catching the smell of burning feathers.  
  
  



	5. Darkness

Disclaimer: not mine, copyright Labyrinth Enterprises (at least, that's what it says on my copy Of the movie). Thank you Mr. Jim Henson way up high for creating such loveliness.   
  
If you like Jareth, this tale will upset you.  
  
  
The Pied Piper  
  
Four  
  
Sarah opened her eyes wide to the night. Her alarm told her it was only half past three. After their lovemaking, she had fallen asleep in her husbands embrace, but in their sleep they had pulled free, so she could easily slip from the bed. She fumbled on the nightstand for her glasses, put them on, slipped into her navy blue bathrobe and grey slippers and silently left the bedroom. Before opening the door to the hallway, she bent down and held her hand low, somewhere at the height of a cat's chest. They had turned all doorknobs up in their flat to prevent illicit entries, but leaving the bedroom in the middle of the night, no matter how softly, was simply too big an invitation.  
  
Upon opening the door, she caught the daring Cleopatra and was luckily quick enough to shove Leila away with her foot. Sarah closed the door softly. The big cat in her arms purred and rubbed it's head against her upper arm. This did not meant the cat had suddenly started to like Sarah, it simply implied she was hungry. Living with four Siamese cats for years had left Sarah well versed in cat speak. She had to feed them first, before anything else, even before going to the bathroom, or their meowing might wake and upset her husband.  
  
  
He moaned softly when he woke. His back hurt, he could not move his arms and he could not see. But he kept his eyes open, for if he closed them, the searing, all devouring light would return. He shivered and stared into nothingness. Trying to ignore the tiny voices that always seemed to find him in moments like this.  
  
"Where are you?"  
"Please- we have been searching for you for so long!"  
"We felt you! Just one tiny moment! But it is not enough!"  
"We know you are not dead- please, come back to us."  
"Please, let us find you."  
"We miss you."  
  
"Oh shut up!" he whispered back to the ghostly voices he did not know how to respond to. They haunted him, unsettled him with their intensity. Yet, they were too vague, to soft to be real. He tried to ignore them, focussed on the real voices, all around- and quickly shied away from them. Too loud, sad, violent. He could not connect with them- they could not bring him peace- Where were the small voices that -never- thought of difficult things?  
  
There! There they were! Below him, near the water. In the big pipes under the city. Yes, there they were- thinking only of a next meal, their mate, a place to sleep. It was so soothing, these simple minds.   
  
"Oh I wish you would come to me, my little friends."  
  
He closed his eyes and drifted off again.  
  
  
Sarah took a sip of the herbal tea she just made herself, watching the happily munching cats at her feet. She was a dog person and would always be a dog person. Peter had convinced her once Siamese were the dogs under the cats, loyal and loving to their keepers and so they were to be a compromise. But to Sarah they were just, well, cats. She didn't like the animals and they did not seemed to be overjoyed with her. But they all loved Peter, and somehow had found their common ground in him. Mostly the cats and she ignored each other, except when it was time for dinner.  
  
Leaning against the kitchen sink, Sarah sighed. She had not dreamt that dream since five years. Meeting Peter, falling in love with him- that had finally stopped the nightmare. Was it only five years ago she had met him? Two since they had married? She stared for a moment at the simple but expensive elegant platinum band around her finger. She had wanted a silver one with a small diamond in it, something sparkling- Peter had chosen differently and the ring was beautiful. But it did not sparkle. Actually, it usually was very dull.  
  
She knew what the dream was, of course. Jareth's ballroom. Jareth's seduction. Jateth's death.   
  
Or as dear old Dr. Bennet had told her, in the three years he had been her shrink, her fight against the disillusions that had made her so depressed that in her own mind she had to kill them. The black figures symbolising her growth into adulthood.  
  
Crap. Utter nonsense and crap. She knew better. But what the dream meant, she still did not know.  
  
And it was the only thing mild Dr. Bob Bennet -had- been wrong about. The first six months after Sarah's return from the Labyrinth, she had been walking on sunshine. Proud with herself and happy with the world. She even started to see her stepmother in another light and Sarah had found a handle to make themselves grow a real relationship. She had asked Karen to teach her how to cook. It was something practical and motherly, typically something Karen would like, and Karen had been delighted with Sarah's willingness to be taught.  
  
Walking on sunshine.  
  
Sarah knew she could never talk about her experiences in the Labyrinth, never go back to the Labyrinth (not that she had expected it), never forget the Labyrinth. She wrote little stories about her friends from 'over there' and told them to Toby. Who apparently had been none the worse for his experience.  
  
She could however talk to Hoggle and the others, through her mirror. They even talked about the King and how he just went on with a 'business as usual' attitude, while he had been deeply humiliated by her. And hurt in a way Sarah did not understood when dear Hoggle tried to talk to her about this. She had been such a wimp, in those days. Such a little girl.  
  
Well, she had only been fifteen- damnit.  
  
The last time she had spoken her dear dwarf friend was through the static and blur of fading magic. Apparently, Jareth had -allowed- Hoggle to contact her, had wanted for some reason or other for Sarah not to forget about them, or him. It had been his magic Hoggle had been using to be able to talk to her.  
  
Then, one night, the nightmare had started. And she woke screaming, in the arms of her pale and frightened father who had no idea why his child had yelled out in her sleep so loud she woke the household.  
  
And the next day Sarah was forced to say goodbye to all of her labyrinth friends- for the King had disappeared. Quickly, through their fading contact, Sarah related her dream to Hoggle and the others. Hoggle had been so worried, just before his image faded and the mirror simply became her vanity mirror for always.  
  
She missed them terribly. And found she was very worried for Jareth. In her spare time, she started looking for him. She did not know why. Both logic and reason told her it might not even be her very world he had been lost in. But still she went looking for him.   
  
It felt so terribly empty to be living in a world were there was no Goblin King. As if a subtle glimmer of magic had gone from her life. With her only aware of it's existence by it's absence.   
  
Sarah's parents asked her what she was looking for. She did not answer, she could not.   
  
Sarah's smile faded and she became an insomniac. For every night, the dream returned. And when Robert Williams noticed this in his girl, and saw no improvement, only a weakening and a fading of her health, he sat her down on the couch and in a long, gentle speech he explained to her he wanted her to see a psychiatrist. He would not allow his girl to slip away further in whatever kind of depression she had fallen into.   
  
Reluctantly, Sarah complied.  
  
The next three years for one hour every week and later on biweekly, she spoke to her friendly doctor who helped her to come to terms with her mother walking out on her and her father, the loss of her friends and many things more. At the end of those three years, Sarah had a good grasp of her own mind and understood a lot of her motives better than most people her age. She seemed older, than the people of her age. Dr. Bennet had called her a caring, understanding young woman, an intelligent and good listener and a person with a clear mind for business. He advised her to follow in his footsteps and go and study psychiatry. Giving up on many a childhood dream, she did.  
  
Sarah had never spoken of the Labyrinth.  
  
Her studies and following career went very well, just as Dr. Bennet had predicted.   
  
One evening, at a party, she fell in love with a blue eyed dark haired man. He was tall, slender and could smile like a devil.   
  
She had not dreamt The Dream, that night. In fact, it had not returned for as long as she knew Peter. And now it was there again, full force.   
  
Sarah finished her tea, cleaned her cup and put it away.  
  
She walked to the living room, went outside to their small balcony. It would be autumn soon, but the night was still a warm one, here in de city. Citylights and pollution blocked out the stars she new were there, yet she still stared out.  
  
"Why now Jareth. Why now when I am finally content with my life do you come back? And were -are- you?"  
  
  
  
  
  
Hernando Valdez -hated- these nightly shifts, when the lights went to only half their strength and the gloomy corridors went positively spooky. He made his rounds, opening the little slits in the doors of the occupied cells, checking as far as he could by vision how the occupants fared.   
  
Tonight was even worse, for that weird power outage- the fifth one since- Well, since they dragged -him- in. This night he had to make his round by the light of a flashlight only and it freaked him out. As one could assume from the name, Hernando was a Latino, drifted up north to find fame and fortune. He wanted to be a lawyer and took classes whenever he could. He was bright, worked hard and one day he would reach all of his goals. Right now he was stuck in a dead end job, working as a orderly in the psychiatric ward of a prison. Right now, he wanted he had studied for the clergy. Fingering the crucifix on the small chain around his neck, he walked through the darkness, peeking inside the cells- until he heard a soft, scratching sound.  
  
It came from the isolation block. And only -he- was there.  
  
So carefully, Hernando took the turn and shone his powerful flashlight into the empty corridor. Nothing.   
  
But the scratching sound was there, soft little squeals, the sound of tiny nails on the floor coming at him.  
  
Shaking, Hernando pointed the light at the floor, and stopped his scream of terror with his fist against his mouth.  
  
In his harsh white beam of light, the floor lived and moved with the flow of tiny furred bodies, cluttering the cell and scratching at the door of the single occupied one, as if they could not wait to be near the creature inside.  
  
It was too much- just too damn much. Hernando screamed, turned and ran for his life.  
  
Rats. Hundreds of them.  



	6. I'm A Doctor, Not A Magician!

Disclaimer: not mine, copyright Labyrinth Enterprises (at least, that's what it says on my copy of the movie). Thank you Mr. Jim Henson way up high for creating such loveliness.   
  
  
I'm A Doctor, Not A Magician!  
  
Psychiatric ward, restricted area.  
Follow the red line.  
  
Sarah's sensible dark blue pumps, almost black, click-clacked over the concrete floor. The bright cold TL-light from the caged lamps threw hardly any shadows under her feet and hid nothing from sight.  
  
Not the dirt on the walls, lower half pale blue, upper half once white. Not the flaking of the paint.   
  
Somebody was shouting, somebody was singing. Somebody was yelling to the others to shut the fuck up.   
  
And Sarah followed the red line towards them.  
  
Something crunched under foot. She stopped and stared at it, realised that the dark green grain she stepped on was rat poison. A man in a brown-red uniform with a bag of small lumps in his hand rounded a corner and came in view. He wore a cap with some firm's name spelled out on it and the word 'pest control' on his back.  
  
"Pest control?" she asked rather incredulously. The small balding man with the horn rimmed glasses walking in front of her, shrugged his shoulders. He turned and shook his head wearily.   
  
"Mrs. Culbreath- We have absolutely -no- idea where they came from. Last night they simply were there. One of my orderlies totally panicked at the site of them."  
  
All Sarah did, was raise her brow. She and ward unit chief Dr. Simion R. Beetem had been discussing 'the patient' in the doctor's office. Walls cluttered with degrees and decorations, a dying pot plant in a corner and a wide desk strewn with documents. Within moments, he plucked the relevant ones out of a seemingly random pile, studied them a moment and impatiently threw them away.   
  
"You want some coffee?" he asked the impeccably dressed young woman in front of him and Sarah nodded. Her dark blue suit all business, her skirt neither too long nor short, an elegant crème blouse and simple jewellery, but golden. A black leather brief case on the floor beside her chair.  
  
Beetem went over to a dresser at the other side of his small office, poured two cups of old and bitter black coffee and sat down again. An undistinguishable small man dressed in a variety of browns, covered with a white lab coat. Undistinguishable, but for the eyes. They were a sparkling cornflower blue, intelligent and mild behind thick glasses.  
  
Sarah and he knew each other well enough by now to know of their coffee habits. Beetem liked nor disliked the young professional woman, he simply admired her results.  
  
"What they wanted me to do to this man, was totally unethical. The Federal Bureau of Investigations has been working on this case for almost fourteen years now. And now they finally had found a man they could hang for it, they would not let a small thing like his capacity to stand trial be an obstruction to their success."  
  
"Judging from your report of his examination, the last thing he is capable of is to stand trial."  
  
"Mrs. Cullbreath, the man has a good day when he is capable of taking a shower unaided."  
  
Sarah tapped with a manicured nail on the papers.  
  
"Passive, unresponsive."  
  
"Catatonic, really. Usually he is extremely frightful of anyone who even tries to approach him. Yet there are episodes of extreme violence. I must warn you, the man -is- very dangerous. Last night, he attacked one of the orderlies. He is in hospital with a broken jaw, his ribcage kicked in and several vertebra severely damaged. It is still not quite sure weather or not he'll ever walk again."  
  
Beetem sipped his coffee. Sarah stared at the table. When she looked up at her elderly colleague, something in her attitude had changed. Her chin had come up as if challenged and her eyes sparkled.  
  
"Why am I here?"  
  
"For the risk, you mean?"  
  
"There is no risk, not as long as he is treated kindly."  
  
Beetem protested. Again she tapped the report.  
  
"Your own words, Sir."  
  
He sat back and smiled at the stubborn young woman.  
  
"I -can- approach him. As long as I keep my voice low and gentle and my movements slow. Something Dr. Frank Marshak failed to do. Besides he does not like the boy."  
  
"Boy?"  
  
"I know he is not. He's a man of thirty-five- forty perhaps." Beetem sighed again. Something he seemed to do a lot.   
  
"But he has a desperation about him, an endearing vulnerability. Like a little bird fallen from the nest into a world he understands nothing about. He's a very slender man. Skinny almost. Not very tall, only a little taller than you and me. He has very fine features and no beard growth what so ever."  
  
"Odd."  
  
"For a Caucasian, yes, very."  
  
"You seem to like him."  
  
"As I said, he seems very vulnerable. And childlike. I guess I just feel a little protective-"   
  
Getting a little angry he put down his empty cup.  
  
"And I do not like to be pushed by uncaring agents, sniffing a career possibility, who simply wish to hang the nut and forget about him. They wanted a simple case with a straightforward conviction and the uproar among the parents of the missing children silenced. So everybody could forget about the poor fool.  
  
Sarah shivered.  
  
"It is not right to put a person away, simply to forget about them." While lifting her cup, her golden bracelet caught her eye. Inwardly she smiled- some old friend might have liked it.  
  
The doctor stabbed with his finger at Sarah.   
  
"Exactly! A person. He is a person. Whatever he has or has not done. Whatever punishment he deserves or would have deserved would he been sane, he still is a person. Something we forget all together too easily around here."  
  
Sarah smiled at the volatile little man. He cared. After eight years at his post, he still cared. She envied the man his passion.  
  
"If you put food in front of him, he eats. That's about the extend of his capability of independent action."  
  
"And the normal questions, date, name of president..."  
  
Beetem took off his glasses a moment and tiredly rubbed the reddened rim of his nose.   
  
"He speaks not a word. Sometimes, he hisses."  
  
"Hisses?"  
  
"Yes. It usually means he's afraid."  
  
"Like a cat?"  
  
The doctor leant back in his seat and slowly, pensively, shook his head.  
  
"Not like any cat I've ever heard. It's a rather eerie sound. Gives me the shivers. I never knew a human being could make such sounds."  
  
Sarah fingered her almost empty cup.  
  
"What is it with this 'ear- thing'?"  
  
"Something the Federal Police is dying to learn more about. They are pointed."  
  
"They are what?"  
  
"Pointed. Like that Spock from Star Trek. Somewhat smaller, I think."  
  
"I never knew you were a fan." said Sarah, smiling.  
  
The man chuckled. "My children were. When they grew up, I would feel positively left out if I could not talk with them about their latest infatuation."  
  
Beetem smiled. "And to think I'm going to be a grandfather before the year is out! How time flies."  
  
Sarah smile turned somewhat cold. Beetem noticed and dragged himself from his family.   
  
"The reason why the FBI is so interested in those silly ears is that someone must have practiced plastic surgery upon the poor man. They want to know whom. And why. And weather or not they are the sign of some cult."  
  
"As in who are this man's accomplices and are there other child-molesters running around in those woods."  
  
Beetem cocked his head. "You've got it. They are also extremely interested in finding the bodies."  
  
"I see. So it will be my job to find some way to communicate with him and to get him to relate all this to me?"  
  
"And right from the start I can tell you, that task is an impossible one. What -I- would like, is for this man to be a little bit less afraid of human contact. He shies away from anybody who comes near him. We have tried to place him with the other prisoners in day-care. He just sits in a corner making himself as small as possible, wraps his arms around his head in an 'if I can't see you- you can't see me' manner. It even seems to work, sometimes."  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"This man is a master in hiding in plain sight. A week ago he went missing for over an hour. Simply sitting in the same old corner, all the time. Incredible, isn't it?"  
  
"Er- yes, it is." said an unbelieving Sarah.  
  
"You don't believe me. Well, perhaps he will pull that little stunt again. I for one would sure like to know -how- he did it."  
  
"But to kindness he responds."  
  
"Somewhat. He seems very sensitive to the attitude with which he's approached." Beetem warded off Sarah's reaction with open upheld palms, shaking his head.  
  
"Believe me, I -know- how that sounds."  
  
"I would like to meet him now."  
  
"We have him in an observation room. Unfortunately, after last nights episode, we judged it better to keep him restrained in a straight-jacket. Otherwise we would have had to drug him and in view of your visit we choose not to do that. Besides, drugs have an odd effect on him.  
  
"How so."  
  
"They hardly seem to work and there is a not imaginable chance of an overdoses if we really have to put him under. Besides, the mere sight of needles makes him go wild."  
  
Sarah put down her cup.  
  
"I think it's about time I met with our mysterious John Doe."  
  
Beetem nodded. "We've experimented with some names. He responds, somewhat, to Jerry. So we now call him 'Jerry Doe'."  
  
  
The room Sarah was led into was small, it's only feature of interest the large see-through mirror to the next room. Inhere, there was a desk to make notes at, some chairs, a sign not to smoke, commonly ignored for the stench in the room and the ashes on the floor.  
  
Sarah walked up to the mirror and stared at the huddled figure in the next, padded room.  
  
"You see, there he is. Totally lost into whatever cave his mind has found to hide within."  
  
Beetem put a cheap cigar between his lips and padded himself for his lighter.  
  
In a corner, bare footed, dressed in his grey pyjama's and that awful straightjacket, a man sat, his face down and hidden by his wild blond hair.  
  
She had seen hair like that before. Flowing in a dark breeze, full and shiny. Not matted and dull, sleek against the mans face. Damnit! Was everything going to remind her of -him- today?  
  
Sarah put one hand to the glass. Behind her, Beetem droned on about 'the patient'. Sarah so wished he would look up and see someone totally different.  
  
  
  
The shining wall- there were other kinds of minds behind. Compassionate ones. One he knew- the other not. And yet, there was something familiar. He looked up.  
  
  
  
He looked up. Sarah's heart turned to stone.  
  
  



	7. Perchance we meet

Disclaimer: not mine, copyright Labyrinth Enterprises (at least, that's what it says on my copy of the movie). Thank you Mr. Jim Henson way up high for creating such loveliness.   
  
Perchance we meet  
  
  
Don't react, don't panic, don't show, stay calm, stay calm, stay calm!  
  
'But I'll be there for you,   
As the world falls down.'  
  
Well, the world was falling down, tumbling head over heels in an unstoppable downward spiral towards a darkness Sarah still remembered from all those years ago. When she looked for the King of the Goblins in the park, in the town. In a dream.  
  
It seemed she had finally found him. Or better put, he her.  
  
The lump in her throat made breathing hard, the haze before her eyes could not be pierced thru- Sarah saw nothing of the world. Hands balled to fist in front of her, unseen by Beetem, her nails digging in the tender flesh of her palms in order not to faint- not to faint.  
  
She shivered but she could not show it. She wanted to scream but she should not make herself heard. How do you tell the ward unit chief of a prisons psychiatric ward he had caught himself a Goblin King? And a murderous one at that? One that played the innocent-   
  
Beetems hand came heavily down on Sarah's shoulder. She stiffened and her head shot up, she wavered and almost lost her balance.  
  
"I said, do you have a light?"  
  
Sarah spun round and the world spun with her. The doctor could barely catch her before setting her down in a chair.   
  
"My dear girl- you are not fainting on me now, now are you?"  
  
Sarah realised she must have gone very pale. She swallowed the lump in her throat- She had to say something, had to tell something- Had to make up some excuse for almost fainting at the sight of some patient in a corner without raising suspicions. Think, think! This is a kind man, a family man- almost a grandfather.. She had to shut him up! No record of this.  
  
Sarah managed a feeble smile. Making an effort to allow it to grow radiant enough to hide a lie.   
  
"No- no thank you- I'll be alright in a minute. Perhaps I should take it a little bit more easy in my condition-" he placed a careful hand on her abdomen and smiled shyly.  
  
"You are not- you are..?"  
  
Beetem smiled a brilliant smile and patted Sarah's shoulder.   
  
"Well, well, well- I'll just get you a glass of water or something. You'll just sit here and take it easy for a minute. And congratulations."   
  
He smiled again and turned to the door, bit his cigar, threw a guilty look at the young woman and pocketed it. Then he was off for her refreshment.  
  
Immediately the fake radiance faded from Sarah's features and she turned towards the one-way mirror again.  
  
His head was bobbing from side to side, slightly cocked with face upturned. As if searching for something. He squinted his eyes, tried to push himself up against the wall, failed and flopped back to the ground.   
  
Behind Sarah, the door opened and closed.  
  
"Hey, lady."  
  
Sarah turned to the male voice, a little higher pitched than one might expect from a man. In the doorframe a young man stood, bronzed skin, dark curly hear and frightened eyes black as coal. His uniform gave him away as being one of the wards orderlies.  
  
"Good morning," Sarah said, but her greeting went unanswered. The man entered the room and stared past Sarah at the patient behind the wall.  
  
"You gonna treat that one, lady. You gone be his headshrinker?"  
  
Sarah pondered the question for a second, than nodded. A challenge. What could the Goblin King's appearance be but a challenge. Probably one she dared not back down from. Not for herself. And there was always Toby to consider. But for the Lord's sake -why- did he have to put up such an elaborate act. And what exactly had he been doing to the disappeared children. Turned them into Goblins, probably.  
  
Pale, tight lipped and furious but with incredible control, Sarah answered.  
  
"Oh yes. I'm gone be this ones headshrinker."  
  
Even if it takes me my life, she thought. That bastard had lost from her last time- so he would now. He should not have picked a fight on -her- terrain.  
  
"You take this then, lady."  
  
Sarah had almost forgotten the young Latino. From his outstretched hand hung a thin golden chain with a tiny crucifix as pendant. The young man obviously was very nervous and clearly wanted Sarah to have the necklace. So she took it.  
  
"Thank you, but why?"  
  
"He, el loco- He's the devil."  
  
Now this was interesting.  
  
"He is?"  
  
"He stronger than five big men together- and he's smaller than me. That's impossible. His ears are like a devils ears. The lights, every time the lights go out at night. But nobody pulls the switch. And there is nothing wrong with the lamps or the plugs. And have you seen the rats? He calls the rats. They came for him!"  
  
The young man was heavily gesturing now and there were tears in his large eyes. Tears of freight. In his mindset, it was incredibly brave of him to part with what he probably saw as the only protection against the evil the patient represented.  
  
"And he kills the little children. Madre de Dios- he kills the little children."  
  
Now the poor man did break down, and Sarah gently gave him her seat.  
  
"Hernando, what are you doing here? I thought I had sent you home, son."  
  
Beetem came back in with a plastic cup of cold water. Sarah's eyes went from the cup in his hand to the sobbing orderly. Beetem shrugged and gave the cup to the boy.  
  
"Now, now. There, there. This has all been a bit much for you, hasn't it-"  
  
Hernando sipped the water gratefully.   
  
"Now you go home now- and I do not want to see you back for at least a day. Get some rest."  
  
Hernando nodded. Stood and threw Sarah a piercing look. Quickly she slipped the chain around her neck. The young man seemed relieved at her gesture and left quickly but with hunched shoulders.   
  
"That poor boy and his superstition- I'm sorry about that."  
  
"Oh," Sarah answered lightly. "I don't know. I really do believe him every word."  
  
"What? Did he tell you about the rats?"  
  
"And the lights."  
  
Beetem grinned, thinking the young woman quipped. While in fact she -did- believe the Latino's every word.  
  
"Glad you are feeling better."  
  
"Don't worry about me, Sir. I'm alright. Right now, I could face the devil himself."  
  
Beetem shrugged, still smiling.  
  
"I'm sorry. All I've got for you is that poor boy behind you."  
  
Sarah turned and stared at the bewildered figure a moment longer.   
  
"Well, He'll have to do than, now won't he?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. King Lear

Disclaimer: not mine, copyright Labyrinth Enterprises (at least, that's what it says on my copy of the movie). Thank you Mr. Jim Henson way up high for creating such loveliness.   
  
King Lear  
  
Vex not his ghost. O, let him pass. He hates him  
That would upon the rack of this tough world  
Stretch him out longer  
(King Lear, Act 5, Scene 3)  
  
  
Sarah refused to 'examine' her new 'patient' in a room where she could be observed. She was escorted to yet another little room with a table, two chairs. Wire for the window and a tight cage over the lamp. Grey walls that might have been light brown once, brownish linoleum that might have been green. Sarah waited, one scream away from the guards, as they had told her.  
  
Standing at the window she awaited her audition with the King. A King of rats.  
  
The door opened. A guard entered and a second pushed the third person in between them inside.  
  
The man looked down, shovelling on slippers juts that bit too large to be able to run with. He still wore the straightjacket.   
  
One guard pulled a chair back, the other guided the prisoner to it and sat him down.  
  
The man slumped forward, as if very tired.  
  
"Ma'am, if he gives you any trouble-"  
"You should not be in here, alone with him, you know."  
  
Sarah nodded at them.   
  
"Thank you for your concern. If there is but a mere hint of trouble, I'll yell."  
  
If she was still in this world at the end of her scream, that was.   
  
The door closed, and Sarah stared. Unmoving. Two steps between them. Only two.  
  
All Sarah could hear, was the thunder of her own heartbeat.   
  
  
  
Minutes passed.  
  
  
  
Nothing happened.  
  
  
  
Sarah's heartbeat became less frantic. Slowly she went to the other side of the table and quietly sat down. When she finally spoke it was with a voice thick with sarcasm.  
  
"Well, are you not going to speak to me, 'Jerry'? Gone trough all this trouble to get me here- and now- What?"  
  
Only the eyes flashed up to the sound of her voice and the utterance of his new name.   
  
"I have no time for this. What do you wish with me now, Goblin King."  
  
Silence. Not even the eyes moved this time. Sarah waited another five minutes, before slapping the table with a flat hand and hissing his name, just not loud enough to alarm the guards.  
  
"Jareth!"  
  
Shocked, he shot up. For a moment Sarah saw something in the wild eyes of the man- then the shutters closed, he pushed himself away, fell backwards, chair and al and scurried away from her until he reached a corner and curled himself up, hiding his face from her.  
  
Both guards ran in at the clamour- but Sarah quickly stood and stepped in-between the two men and her patient.  
  
"No- it's all right- It's my fault, I startled him. Please, leave us-"   
  
Reluctantly, they did.  
  
Sarah heard a soft whimper and turned towards it.  
  
This was unbelievable. Utterly amazing and unbelievable. The creature that had almost literally been blown into her life by the stormwinds, all regal and tall and dark, harassing her for her brother. Threatening her for Toby's life. Threatening -her- life. Making her friends miserable. The seducer- The high and mighty Goblin King. He lay whimpering at her feet close enough to kick. Silent, but for the soft frightened moans. Unmoving, except for the involuntary shivers that racked his body.   
  
She almost told him what a pity it was to see him like this.  
  
Almost.  
  
She was trying to find the cruelty to do it, but could not.  
  
  
Sarah knelt beside him and he hissed at her, as Beetem had told her he might. But Sarah recognised the sound, she had heard it once before. Or at least something quite similar. Not completely, this squeal sounded frightened- the other one had sounded angry. Over fifteen years ago. When a majestic almost white barnyard owl had flown away from her home.  
  
"Playing dumb animal, I see."  
  
She shivered. What Sarah had seen flashing in those eyes just before he fell, was quite horrific if one compared the kings former station with what had become of him. He had not recognised the name- he had been terrified of it.  
  
"Jerry."  
  
Another hiss.  
  
"Jerry, look at me."  
  
No reaction.  
  
Sarah stood and removed her businesslike dark blue jacket, hoping to be less frightening. Angry at herself for allowing herself to believe the act of the creature in the corner only for the tiniest of moments. Without thinking about what the dirty floor might do to her panty's, she knelt again next to him.  
  
  
  
  
Fear. He hated the taste of a mind in fear. This woman was afraid of him. They were all afraid of him. And she was angry at him. Just like so many others were angry at him. He just wanted all that anger to go away- but he could not make it stop.  
  
  
  
  
"Not so impressive now, are you." Or actually, much more impressive if this -was- all an act. Sarah could pull a slight performance- but here she sat next to a master.  
  
No, not so impressive now. Slender, as one really could expect from a Fae. Yet Sarah had only seen him in billowing capes and wide flowing shirts that had made him look a lot broader in the shoulders. And she now also understood the high heeled boots, although she had neither noticed nor thought of them before, not really. Jareth was at least half a head smaller without them.  
  
"Well, if you are truly going to play the madman, you must want me to assume the role of your psychiatrist, now don't you? Is your mind the maze this rime round? Is that what you wish me to solve? Don't you realise what I could do to you? How about a nice little lobotomy? I know of several hospitals where they still use electro-shocks. Would you like that than?"  
  
Silence.  
  
"Damnit, Jareth! Answer me!"  
  
Frustrated she gave his shoulder a push. All reaction was a warning little hiss.  
  
Sarah kept her hand at his shoulder. Her touching him had been instinct-, but she now kept her hand where it was. She was touching the Goblin King. Not dreaming away in his arms, dancing within his enchanted illusion with him in control. Just a skinny shoulder through a straightjacket.  
  
"Jareth- this is not funny anymore. What are you playing at? Is this some test to see how cruel I really am? Whether or not I'm vindictive?"  
  
Or egocentric, came the unbidden thought. She was not behaving very professional at the moment. She tried again, gentler this time, cussing herself for playing along with the elaborate act.  
  
Jerry reacts to kindness, the reports said. He reacts to peoples approach. Not surprisingly for a magical Fae.  
  
Sarah squeezed Jerry's shoulder lightly, and tried to change her mindset, mould herself into a gentler mood. With her free hand she tipped his chin up.  
  
What Sarah did not realise was that the creature in front of her had not been touched with gentleness in a long, long time. He had been pushed, beaten, professionally been undressed, washed and dressed again. But not patted on the shoulder, or had someone raise his face with gentleness as one would a child's.  
  
He shivered.  
  
Sarah stared into Jareth's slack face. The eyes still held that mesmerising quality, with one pupil contracting with the light, the other stationary and enlarged. Yet the eyes held no life and no power. Even Jareth's beauty had dulled somewhat, his unruly hair dirty, the fine boned face paler than Sarah remembered. Without the radiance of life. Without the sparkle of the Underground. Without magic.  
  
Childlike indeed. This creature was easily over a thousand years old- yet he sat there, whimpering and shivering like a little lost boy in need of comfort. Sarah began to understand Beetems protectiveness towards the Fae- even if Beetem never had seen the King in his glory.  
  
  
  
Jareth closed his eyes. A pleading whimper escaping his throat. He felt the woman before him was not afraid anymore. Hesitant and weary, but not afraid. She would not hurt him.  
  
  
  
Sarah let go of Jareth's chin, her free hand tracing his face, experimentally combing through is hair to see the 'ear-thing' for herself. All the while marvelling at the fact she was this close to the King, actually touching him. With him allowing it without sarcastic remarks, quips, smirks or leering half smiles.  
  
  
Suddenly Jareth dropped himself into the arms of the woman. He wanted to be close to her warmth, to something that would not hurt him. And Sarah, taken by surprise, embraced him to prevent the both of them from toppling over. Jareth let go of a long, long sigh, while Sarah, wide eyed, half in terror, half in wonder, held him close.   
  
What if Jareth's behaviour was not an act? What if this Master of Illusion and Fae Glamour was really as lost as he seemed to be? Devoid of mind, afraid and now, imprisoned? What in the world could have happened to the King to bring him down this low?  
  
  
Realising Sarah had been alone with Jareth for over thirty minutes, Beetem just had to peek through the window in the door. And what he saw made him admire the young psychiatrist all the more. There she sat on the cold dirty floor, heedless of her once pristine little outfit, hugging a dangerous murderer who never could let anyone come close. She was all he could have hoped for, for this patient. All anyone could have hoped for to solve this man's mystery. Beetem could at least make a report now giving Sarah card blanche. Even those bastards of the FBI would be pleased.   



End file.
